Deceits of the Father
by The Glorious Cheshire Kitten
Summary: When a beautiful girl comes begging for help, James Bond comes out of retirement for one last mission. 007 was always a sucker for a pretty face. [Rating subject to change]


Disclaimer: Recognize anyone? Oh you do? Well guess what. I don't own them! If I was making any money off this story, I wouldn't be working for just above minimum wage.

**Chapter One: The Spider's Web**

"So this is what you've been doing with your retirement."

The martini disappeared from James Bond's hand en route to his lips, and the retired agent spun in his seat to confront the speaker. His hand froze an inch away from the glass and the fingers which now held it. The stranger was a woman who was barely more than a girl, mid-to-late twenties, with dark brown hair and blue-green eyes lightly lined. She was dressed - oddly for the resort city of Avignon - in black trousers, brown pumps, and a green blouse with a barely-professional neckline. Her long hair was held up in a clip that allowed the ends to tickle her shoulders, and her eyes were magnified behind the black frames of her glasses.

She took a sip of his martini, shrugged one shoulder slightly, and set the glass back on the low table at his side. "I can't say I fault you. Avignon is beautiful, and your bartender certainly knows his craft." Her accent was a light crisp English, clean and pure and clearly the product of a good school. A foreign school, but a good one. She gestured to the empty lounge chair beside him. "May I join you, Mr. Bond?"

The man looked at her for a moment, assessing her. Then, he lifted his glass and tipped it toward the empty chair. "Please do, Miss…?" He trailed, giving her the opportunity to introduce herself.

The girl, however, merely sat down and slipped off her pumps, lining them up beside her. "You're not the man I expected to find, but then, I hadn't taken into account almost… what, six years in the south of France?"

Bond's spine stiffened, and he felt the unnerving nakedness that came from being unarmed and knowing you're about to be in over your head. He drained his drink without tasting it, set the glass down. "Shall we go in?" he asked, the welcome gone and his voice cold as the Thames. He stood without looking at her and turned down toward the Rhône. The girl quickly put on her shoes and followed him, keeping pace for a few meters before lengthening her stride to catch up.

"Who are you?" Bond demanded when they walked alone along the river. He stopped, gripped the girl's arm, and spun her to look at him. A sickly sense of déjà vu settled over him with the cool blue-green eyes once more in view, something scratching at the corners of his mind, temptingly close but too far to touch. His hand tightened on her arm, his knuckles white, but she made no move to pull away.

"Would you really like to have this conversation here, 007?" she asked him with an upturn at one side of her mouth. Her voice had dropped into a low purr, and the eyes flashed.

The use of his former title sent a chill down his back. "I'm retired," he said flatly. He pushed her away and saw white marks appear on her skin where his fingers had been. In spite of the sudden show of force, she didn't lose her equilibrium and barely stumbled. "What does MI6 want with me?"

"It's not MI6, strictly speaking, but it _is_ a threat to our national security, and there's no better man than you." She smiled with one corner of her mouth, flashing white teeth, and removed her glasses. "But I don't think I've introduced myself, have I? My name is Aurora. If you wish, you can call me Rori." She checked a slim black watch under her right sleeve. "Approximately thirty-four hours ago, your replacement was lost in Morocco-"

"Lost?" Bond echoed. "How do you mean lost?" He opened a door along the river wall and stepped into it, flipping a switch. Bare, dangling bulbs lit a narrow stone stairwell that ascended sharply into the body of the city. The walls were rough-hewn stone, but the stairs themselves were new cement. Bond's voice echoed as he walked ahead of Aurora.

"I mean," said the young brunette carefully, "that all communication, tracking, and visual had been compromised or disabled. Forty hours ago, 007 was labelled a cyber-terrorist and a traitor to the crown and was issued a kill-on-sight order to all allied agencies. There was an attempt to hack MI5 and MI6, and the attack was traced to 007 and a member of Q-Branch. Both had been black-listed and are internationally wanted." She emerged after him into the gloom of a wine cellar. Row upon row of pigeonhole shelves surrounded them, the empty ones staring like vacant eyes.

Bond rounded on her, standing directly under a naked bulb. The light made frightful shadows in his face, turning it into a mask. "You're well informed," he said coldly. He reached to his right, grasped the familiar cold shape of a 45 Lueger pistol, drew it from its concealed niche, and pointed its little snub nose at her. "Why?"

Aurora gave that achingly familiar half-smile, something that once more scratched at Bond's mind with insidious insectoid legs. "Well, Mr. Bond, that has a very simple cause. I'm the member of Q-Branch in question. I was the Quartermaster until precisely thirty-four and one-half hours ago."


End file.
